six || tauankia pemota ojai

The sun is going down outside my window. Where did the day go? I don’t remember what I did after I ate lunch, or how the ground is darkened with a light dusting of rain. My eyes blink tiredly as I look down at my hands, fixing cautiously on the paper I’m holding. Pencil lines criss-cross along the cream surface, melding together to form a semi-cohesive drawing. There’s a woman, her face practically glowing despite the use of only grey. Her eyes are brighter than anything I’ve ever seen, almost identical to the boy’s eyes next to her. He looks so much like-

“Nothing is ever done right around here! What do I need to do to get some order?”

Grandfather is angry again. I can hear him screaming at father downstairs. His rich, baritone permeates the walls and spreads through the air like a stifling fog. He’s always loud, but when he’s angry, he seems to inflate in every respect. A slow lengthening of his spine usually sends him towering over my six feet. The echoes of his raspy voice fade away to an all-encompassing boom of rage. His chest puffs out in an act of dominance and aggression. He’s an imposing man in everything he does, but most especially in his anger. Father doesn’t yell back, though. He takes it little by little until he can throw everything back in grandfather’s face: how he supports him with his income, how he gave him a grandson, how he always keeps the house in working order. The silence that follows is never a good one. It’s a slow moving omen of the time to come, a time when grandfather has passed the point of anger and reason and plummets directly into sheer rage. I’ll wait with bated breath for the storm to break, huddled against my dresser in a sinking hope that today I won’t hear him call me. We always reach that point, though. It always comes down to me.

“Boy!”

Fear lodges within the cavities of my chest, fingers clenching tight against the bruises that mar my arms as I curl in tighter to myself. I only have a few seconds to collect myself. Keeping grandfather waiting is not a wise decision. I don’t care to test him further than the bounds of his nonexistent patience. The tears in my eyes are short lived as I blink them back, standing on wobbly legs and hurry to unlock my bedroom door. There are heavy boot-steps below, the sound bouncing up the stairs with a familiar precision. Two steps to the left, three forward, four to the right, circle, pause. I’m slipping down the steps before he even has the chance to do a second round. My feet are on the ground for hardly a second before I’m being slammed up against the wall, a loose picture frame coming loose and clattering to the ground with a deafening shatter. The thudding of my heart slows to a weak beat, every hope of getting off easy breaking to pieces with the glass on the floor. A stray whimper croaks from my throat as grandfather pulls me away from the dark paneling and throws me to the floor atop the broken remnants of a family picture.

I cry out despite ever instinct in me screaming to keep my mouth shut. My side is burning and I scramble back to put distance between myself and the glass that isn’t stuck in my skin. The shards pierce through my palms, small pinches of pain in comparison of what’s coming. I know it’s coming before I feel it. A solid boot connects with my stomach and I groan, struggling to back away as the kicks keep coming. When I look up, eyes searching for aid that will never come, they lock with the lazy brown of my father, staring straight at me as I’m hauled up and tossed further into the sitting room. I roll haplessly, gasping as the glass lodges further in my side. For a moment, I feel as if I’m deflating. My legs turn to jelly and I flop against the floor full-bodied on my stomach. When I’m flipped over, it is only to be assailed with spitting remarks and blurring fists. My eyesight doesn’t feel right. Everything is fuzzy and I realize belatedly that I’m sobbing, mouth open despite the blood running from my lip. As my head slips sideways, the last thing I hear is a muffled, “Pathetic,” from the rocker in the corner.

I am a heavy weight when I blink my eyes open, neck twisting in every direction. The light of the day is dim in here, maybe only just risen enough to lose the blood orange hue of newly slaughtered night. Narrowed as they are, my eyes just barely let me filter through the room enough to gauge my predicament. It’s colder than death itself in here, what with the breeze from the window, and as silent to boot. There’s thumping downstairs, the sound of boots on tired wood and rusted nails, squeaking as they climb the stairs. My eyes slip shut again, chest falling to a shallow rhythm. A rustle sounds near my head before I’m moved just enough to get something slipped under me. The steps move to the window and a resounding slam echoes in the wake of a closing portal. A quick click and the only light left is artificial, no doubt the organic light covered in blinds. For a moment, there is only breathing.

“Piece of shit… Be glad to get rid of ya’. Ya’ ran away, if I ever get asked. Must’ve died off in the water. Stupid little wimp…”

My hand inches slowly up my body, feeling across sensitive patches of skin and dried blood. The person hasn’t moved, but I won’t lose an advantage. Fingers graze cold glass and ragged skin, pressing just slightly to test the hold. The rib underneath gives. I stop, holding in the pained sound with a harsh bite to my bottom lip, starting up the flow of blood from the wound. I don’t remember being on the receiving end of any of this… There’s an absence in my head where time should be, a looming space of openness where there should be vivid memories. My fingers grip the glass, skin slicing open with the pressure of unmarked territory. I take as deep a breath as my damaged body can manage and sit up, yanking at the glass despite the pain of re-opening such a tender wound and embedding it farther in my hand. Movement behind me. My eyes flick open.

Grandfather is staring at me as I push myself to my feet, stumbling out of the way of his grasp. He growls low in his throat, advancing towards me. I hit the closed door hard, struggling to find some remnant of balance before lunging forward. The glass in my hand cuts open a jagged wound across grandfather’s swinging arm. He draws back in pain for just a moment before surging forward and slamming me up against the door. My right arm draws up in a quick movement, scratching at his neck before raising to claw at his face. He hardly reacts, an arm coming up to press against my windpipe. The energy is sucked from my body with every second he holds me up, but there’s nothing in me that will not continue to fight. I curl my fingers in, but leave my palm open, thrusting my arm upwards at his face in quick jabs until I hear the crunch of cartilage. Grandfather’s anguished groan and pulling back of his weight gives me enough of an opening to swing my other arm up, throwing him off balance. I follow on shakily sure feet, stabbing at him as he crashes into the sink. The glass hold in the skin, but I feel it fracture beneath my fingertips as I hit bone. His voice crying out in pain is the sweetest of music to my ears and a soother of my soul. I step up close to him, curling my fingers around his neck and squeezing for all I am worth. Tendons quake beneath my fingertips and breathing grows tight and blood ceases to flow. A sick satisfaction brings a sinister grin to my face, lips twitching as it contorts into a mask of rage and utter pleasure.

One of his hands comes up to dig into my face, pressing into the cut on my lip before slipping up with the blood. The spoke he hits on my cheek gives way beneath the pads of his fingers, a sharp grinding within my face. I draw in a sharp gasp, tightening my hands to redirect the pain into his form. A snarl curls from my lips as his other hand jars my side, pressing inside the gash left behind by the glass. For just a moment, my grip falters and grandfather draws in a deep breath. He pushes forward in a burst of unchecked rage and I lose what balance I had recovered in my few minutes of power. My feel fall out from under me as my knees collide with the edge of the tub. I can feel my head collide with the stainless steel of the rim of the tub. The water that greets me saps away what warmth I have, my limbs flailing haphazardly over the top of the tub. I shut my eyes and mouth out of reflex, but fingers pry open my lips and my lungs fill with water. Hands hold me down as I struggle, eyes blinking open to see the image of my grandfather through the pink-tinted haze. My hands curl around his collar for a moment, pulling me just above the surface.

“No! You filthy-”

“Be quiet, you little pest.”

I’m under again in a moment’s notice, body seizing as it tries to fight back, but all I can manage is to twitch my deadened legs and clench my fingers against the worn cotton of the man holding me down. Every breath I seek is met with water and the heavy realization that this is it. My hands flatten out, pushing clumsily at the air before they drop into the water. I try with every last bit of me left to resurface, but I’m empty. Foggy blackness creeps into the corners of my vision little by little until I am swallowed whole by it and left in the absolute dark.